The Father, the Son, and the Demon Sword
by Ormiss
Summary: [Seisen no Keifu] The Demon Sword Mistoltin is power made flesh in metal. Just as a sword cannot know honor, or love, so too is its wielder unaware of the weapon's ambitions, and aspirations. History never hears the silent.
1. The Father

**Introduction:** This is an experiment carried out firstly because I want to keep writing, and secondly because it's difficult for me: I'm not good at this sort of short story, which is all the more reason to try to become better. To this end, I would be most pleased if you could review, and point out what I could have done better.

This is a short story about Eltosian and Sigurd, their sons Aless and Celice, and the Demon Sword Mistoltin, heirloom of Eltosian's family.

* * *

**  
The Father…**

From a distance, a watcher might have found the scene fascinating, like a child that watches ants mill about a miniature landscape; toiling for no evident purpose, their aims and intentions inscrutable to a greater mind. There was a cadence to the sight, a fickle pulse inherent in the motions of tiny men on tiny horses. Silence marked the meeting of the riders, and no sound reached the distant perch when flesh and steel collided. From a distance, there was neither sound nor understanding for a fallen knight. The sun bore down, washing over the plains surrounding Silvail Castle, and light reflected from myriad metal surfaces, causing the landscape to sparkle and glitter. Too distant to see blood, sweat, and tears, the scene was beautiful.

It was fascinating.

* * *

**-Eltosian-**

Battle was pandemonium. The din of horses' hooves, the clamor of knights' voices, the sound of swords and lances clashing; the War God's call. The brutal sun smote Eltosian's armor and stole the breath from his lungs. His skin crawled, covered with sweat against the leather, beneath the metal. The Cross Knights thundered across the plains, and horses whinnied and shrieked with fear as weapons bit into their flesh. Battle-cries marked the beginnings, and death screams the ends. Battle was thoughtless chaos; a dance without reflection.

Mistoltin was pleased. The sentient blade sent shivers of pleasure through his sword arm as his fingers gripped the hilt with the full extent of his strength. His knuckles should be white, but the sword called for blood from all sources, and his hand pulsated furiously; a measure of Mistoltin's desire. His heart pounded, and he saw the world through a haze of bloodlust. The scene before him was all too clear.

"Eltosian!" a voice shouted.

His mind focused as a knight clad in blue broke through the ranks and charged towards him. It was Sigurd.

One of his knights—the name was lost to the haze—met the lord, and Sigurd flicked his sword past the man's defenses. With a swift stab, the blade swept past the golden shield and bit through armor, into flesh. The Cross Knight screamed, and threw up his sword. In one last act of defiance, he swept the blade at Sigurd, but the lord was already past him. The Cross Knight sagged against his mount, and blood leaked from armor plates. The color of red stained gold, and he fell from the saddle. The horse reared up, and Eltosian lost sight of the man. Anger welled into his mind, but it felt superficial; not quite his own. His sword wanted Sigurd's head.

Sigurd called his name, but he did not respond. He spurred his mount forward, and charged. _Mistoltin_ raised his arm, and he held the sword aloft. His vision narrowed, and for a moment he saw only Sigurd. Their horses met.

Their swords met. Mistoltin's malicious jade slammed against Sigurd's silvery blade, and sparks flew as the weapons collided once, and again. They matched their strength, and the blades slid against each other to meet at the cross-guards. Eltosian grit his teeth, and frowned.

"Eltosian!" Sigurd yelled. The voice was jarring.

Eltosian tensed his arm and pushed with all his might. Their horses pranced about each other, vying for a better position as their masters locked swords. With a final push, Eltosian drew back his sword and thrust.

Sigurd was prepared. His sword cut through the air and dropped, pushing Mistoltin down. His attack failed, and he heaved his sword back up to prepare for a counter-attack.

The attack never came.

Eltosian hesitated, and circled his horse around to flank the blue knight.

Sigurd snarled. "Cease this! Listen to me!" His eyes were visible beneath his helm, and they had filled with determination, but also something more. Something deeper.

Eltosian's breathing was bestial, and his mind struggled to contain his anger; Mistoltin's fury. "Silence," he growled. "We are knights, Sigurd; you and I both. You come here as an invader…" He moved his mount in a brisk turn and charged. "And I stand here as a defender!"

Sparks of jade and silver erupted between their blades. The force of the blow drove Sigurd back in his saddle, and he turned his mount around, pushing back. His face paled as he saw the crack on his silver sword.

"Augustria could hope for _no better man_ to defend her, Eltosian!" he shouted. His words were spoken with aggression, but his face could not conceal his sincerity.

((_Always so sincere, Sigurd…_)) The thought originated in Eltosian's mind. It was his own, and not of the sword. He felt remorse as his blade moved. Sigurd's eyes shot open, and he ducked as Mistoltin swept down on him. The blade brushed and chipped his shoulder pad, but left him unscathed.

Sigurd backed off and rearranged his sword and shield. "You are _wrong_, Eltosian! I am _not_ here as an invader, so call off your knights and _spare_ our lives! I came to _rescue you_."

The words roused a portion of Eltosian's mind, and he swept his gaze across the battlefield. The two of them were stranded away from the heart of the battle, and they were alone. Occupied with the grim reality of the skirmish, their knights would not come to their aid. ((_Perfect,_)) Eltosian thought. "Rescue me? Do I look like I need rescuing from my own people?" He held his mount still, and did not push the attack. Sigurd breathed heavily, and a look of doubt had crept into his eyes. Eltosian felt a moment's elation—a thing of blood lust—before he realized that he was no less tired. ((_Our swordsmanship seems evenly matched…but in Barhara, at the academy, I was the better swordsman, and I have Mistoltin. The victor on this day…is me,_)) he assured himself.

"Do not twist my words, Eltosian!" Sigurd breathed through his mouth, and his shoulders rose and fell in tune. "Yes, we are knights, but we are also—"

((_Enough!_)) Eltosian charged. He flicked his sword back, and hid it behind his back as he raised his shield in front. Sigurd closed his mouth and scowled. Uncertainty was evident in his features as he spurred his mount into motion. Their horses' heads aligned, and Eltosian shifted his grip on Mistoltin. In a moment, he swept the sword around.

Another clash, another crack, and Mistoltin sang with joy.

Eltosian's cheek flushed with pain as Sigurd's shield slammed into the side of his face. His vision swam, and he gasped in fear as he prepared for an attack he would not be able to predict. He moved sword and shield blindly, struggling to regain his balance.

No attack came.

"Damn it, Eltosian, _listen to me_! You say we are knights, and you are right, but we are also friends. We are _brothers_, you stupid son of a bitch!"

The irony of the insult was too much for Eltosian. Even as he fought to still his vision, he laughed. The clash of emotions stirred something within his heart, and he found tears gathering in his eyes. Without a word, he raised his hand and slammed the visor of his helm down. He watched Sigurd through the slit.

"Do not hide from me, Eltosian!" Sigurd shouted.

"Enough, Sigurd." Once the ringing in his ears died down, his mind had returned to him. The sword seemed to vibrate with anger, but his thoughts pushed the bloodlust aside, and set him free. "A knight's honor is his oath. Even though…" He choked on the words, and left them unspoken. "I will _not _die an oath-breaker. Let us behave ourselves as knights, and fight without guilt or remorse!"

He did not make the first move. Somehow, he wanted this moment to drag out, to last. ((_No guilt? No remorse?_)) He chuckled to himself. ((_For you at least, Sigurd, no guilt, no remorse. That is beyond me…_)) Mistoltin throbbed with eagerness. The Demon Sword knew not honor, but it thrived on it all the same.

"Eltosian…" Sigurd closed his eyes for a moment, and swallowed. He shifted his sword to his shield arm and held out his empty hand. "I understand. A knight's honor…" He drew a deep breath, and opened his eyes. "If one of us…" His voice broke. "If one of us must die here today, I cannot decide whom. Let our swords decide! _No guilt_, my beloved friend."

Sigurd's eyes were filled with pity. He saw right through him.

Eltosian fought back the tears. (('_Even though I love you,' my dear friend. You are not the only one I have scorned for my honor, Sigurd; not the only one I have pushed aside to preserve my dignity._)) With a shout, he hid his emotions, and charged.

Time lost its meaning, and the sun halted in its path. Its light reflected off of Eltosian's raised shield as his mount's furious motion made a blur of the world. He heard the sound of hooves, but thought nothing of it. Sigurd grew in his field of vision, and he blinked away unshed tears. ((_Farewell…_)) Mistoltin's desire was a shriek running through his blood, jolting his veins.

Silence made everything faint. His horse leapt, and he raised his sword. He aimed for the air, and swung to miss. Precision gave collision, and with that; tremors of the body, and of the arm.

Their swords collided, and Eltosian felt Mistoltin tear through the silver blade's tang and crush it. The shock was stunning, and he turned his mouth as he touched down.

Neither of them had aimed true. ((_We are such pathetic liars!_)) He could fight the tears no more, and wept. Sigurd's eyes were brimming with tears, but he said nothing.

"Liar!" Eltosian screamed. It was irrational, but necessary. His heart ached. "Vainglorious bastard! Let me die!" He was frantic, and filled with aimless anger. This madness was _his_, and not Mistoltin's.

Sigurd remained silent.

Eltosian's mind flooded with thoughts of his wife, and of his son, and he was overcome with guilt. His tears fell as he screamed, and he swung his sword in desperation.

"Master Sigurd!" someone shouted.

A great force slammed into Eltosian's shoulder pad. He was knocked aside as the javelin veered from his armor, and his sword swept through air, cooling Sigurd's face.

"Finn, no! _Stand down_!" Sigurd shouted.

Eltosian raised his sword and turned, feeling disoriented. Sigurd was close, now, and he no doubt knew that he was crying. Two horses approached.

"Brother! Brother!" Lachesis' voice carried from behind him.

Eltosian turned to see his sister ride at the side of a blue-haired knight armed with a lance. He felt a wordless fury rise. "Stay away from this place, Lachesis! Do not come close!"

"Shut up, you fool!" she shrieked. Her voice was scattered, and the words were wrought around tears. She was weeping, and the sight of her anxious face cut through all of Eltosian's defenses. The knight at her side was watching her with worry, even as he cleared a path for her. Eltosian felt a deep sting of jealousy.

"Lachesis, leave _at once_," he commanded. "We are knights, and this is our destiny as knights!"

Lachesis reined her horse in at his side, and scowled. Finn held his lance with hesitation, protective enough to stand at her side, but frightened enough to keep his distance. Eltosian now saw that he was little more than a child, not long removed from a squire's duties.

"Knights! I _too_ am a knight, brother! You and Master Sigurd have taught me a knight's honor, and it is not this nonsense about destiny or oaths! How could an _honorable_ man or woman, _knight or not_—"

"Sister, be quiet."

"NO. _You_ be quiet, you pompous fool! Knight or not, how could an honorable man betray a friend! Do not do this! Do not throw your life away for nothing!" Her words were at once coaxing and insulting, and her voice tried to hide her heart-wrenching worry.

((_She at least will not know my tears_.)) "If we lose our king, Augustria will be no more."

Lachesis raised her head with pride, and scowled; a menacing expression not entirely marred by her tears. "If the king would withdraw his army, Sigurd would not need to push on. Please, dear Elto, put your trust in your _friend._"

Eltosian knew not how to protect himself from her devotion. The world swirled, and he once more found himself fighting back the tears. He refused to let the child see him cry, or even his sister. He gathered his strength, and failed. He cracked.

"I will make one last attempt to speak with the king…" The smile that spread on his sister's face warmed his heart, but it could not rouse his spirit. ((_It will be a knave's death, but at least I will die for a friend._))

"Sigurd…" He turned to regard his friend.

Sigurd glanced at Lachesis, and then to him. "Eltosian, _be well_." Although he did not say 'farewell,' it was implied. His friend seemed close to tears as well, and spoke slowly, deliberately. "For all those days and nights in Barhara…"

"Yes. Thank you, Sigurd. It was an _honor_. Give Cuan my regards."

"I… I will."

((_You were my dearest friend, Sigurd._)) He turned his horse around and stared at his sister. Too relieved at the turn of events, she seemed oblivious to the truth. He forced a smile, but the visor made the gesture symbolic at best.

Mistoltin still throbbed with bloodlust when he raised it to call a retreat. When he looked around, he found no one but Sigurd's warriors alive on the field; a gallery of motionless soldiers, all watching him. Embarrassment could not compete with pain and guilt.

Lachesis smiled through wistful tears. He stared at her, and fought down the desire to touch her face one last time. He let his gaze linger, and then broke it. Castle Silvail was awash with burnished red colors under the setting sun. Its towers and walls seemed to be bleeding.

Mistoltin fumed as he sheathed it, and the hilt sent pulses of agonizing temptation through his arm as he slowly let go of it.

He had always known that she would be his undoing.

How ironic that his undoing nearly became hers.


	2. The Son

…**the Son…**

History has a habit of repeating itself. In the desert, the sands of time are difficult to count, hidden as they are in plain sight. Upon the dunes, sun and moon vie for dominion in an infinite cycle of fire and ice. Yet, for those who drudge through the sands, time is lost, and night and day become mere reminders of their journey's perils. For the wanderers of the desert, time is the _destination_.

The town of Darna, with its imposing cliff-side fortress, was built around an oasis in Yied Desert. Birds that watched the world from their lofty perch would see the clear water sparkle in the sunlight, like a sea of silver with a lush, green border in the middle of a desolate landscape. Connected with the outside world through caravans and traders alone, the events of the world were distant things; whispers of something epic, and unreal. Myth and legend were truth and fact in this place, where a great miracle had once turned the tides of darkness. In the darkest of hours, hope itself had been restored with _their_ birth: Power made flesh in metal.

History _makes _a habit of repeating itself.

* * *

**-Aless-**

The desert wind tugged at Aless' cloak, and grains of sand bit into the skin of his cheek. He pulled the cowl closer, and leaned in the saddle to watch the sands unfold in dunes across the distance beneath the cliffs. There was motion, and a blur of colorful figures that clashed against the earthen colors beneath the obscuring wind: Travelers struggling for footing in the sand. His mount pranced restlessly upon his vantage point, feeling its rider's excitement.

"Jabarro, are you sure this is him?" He had to raise his voice to drown out the sound of the merciless wind.

"I've already told you; it's him. Settle down, Aless. Anger's useful, but hate ain't." He scratched his beard and grinned.

Aless shook his head, but said nothing. ((_You do not understand honor, Jabarro. It's in my blood, bequeathed to me by my father…and Mistoltin cries out for vengeance._)) The thought of vengeance—justice—was intoxicating, and his heart would not be still. Beneath, he saw the figures more clearly with each passing moment. Celice's so-called "Liberation Army," stumbled and staggered through the sand. Jabarro's Wolves would have their throats with ease, and for Aless; Celice.

His hand slithered ceaselessly about the hilt of the Demon Sword. "Remember the arrangement, Jabarro. I won't forgive you if you mess this up." He braced himself as he spoke, but it had to be said.

"Don't get smart with me, pup! You won't forgive me! What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He snarled, and shook his head in disgust. "I don't like your involvement in all of this; I've got half a mind to send you back to Darna and handle this without you."

Aless felt cold inside, but a vein of anger erupted beneath the chill. "You know this is for the best," he coaxed, frowning.

"The _best_ is obedience, and no mouthing off! Keep your damn head cool, or I swear…" He snapped his teeth shut and growled—Aless had seen the gesture a hundred times before. It failed to impress him.

((_I have a great debt to Jabarro, but…the price that Mistoltin demands is greater still._)) He ran his gloved hand through the horse's mane, and watched the tiny figures trekking through the desert.

* * *

The signal was silent, and swift. A hail of arrows issued forth from the nooks and crannies along the crags of the cliffs, piercing armor and flesh as the projectiles hit their marks. Soldiers screamed, fell, and raised sprays of sand as they rolled down the dunes they had tried to climb. With a fierce, howling cry, Jabarro's Wolves swept down on the narrow pathways and engaged the survivors, driving a wedge into the invading army and scattering them in the pitiless desert scene. 

Aless waited for the right moment, and roused his mount into motion. He raced down the slope, and leapt across the sand. Jabarro and his men had cleared the way, opening up a path to the enemy general. Chaos erupted around him as he entered the fray, and Mistoltin hissed with pleasure as he swung the sword and cut through steel and bone.

The confusion threw the enemy lines into disarray, and Aless swept through their ranks with little resistance. He could see Celice upon his horse; close now. Mistoltin throbbed, and its thirst for blood sent exhilarating pulses of desire through his arm.

It exulted as he thrust the edge through the slit in a soldier's visor, and pushed through him. Celice saw him, and then they were face to face—fury and surprise.

Hate filled him, and he swept his sword around to take the boy's head. Celice spurred his horse forward, and he raised a curved blade. Their swords met, and clanged. Sparks burst in flashes of jade and blue, and Aless growled. He feinted, and thrust, but the boy backed away with a series of frantic parries. His horse whinnied, and he glanced to either side, looking for something. He pressed his lips together, and frowned.

Aless snorted. He stabbed his sword towards the boy, and with a minute shift of his grip, changed the attack into a vertical slash at the last moment. Celice screamed, and threw himself back in the saddle. His sword rose, and their blades met with a clang. A tress of blue hair fell to the ground. ((_His swordsmanship is unpolished. He is no more than a child, after all…_)) Aless stiffened in the saddle, and raised his sword in salutations. Surprise passed over Celice's face, and then he mimicked the gesture. ((_So, you are a knight after all?_)) He stilled his breath, and lifted his visor to greet the windswept desert.

"Celice! I am the Black Knight Aless…but you might know me better as the _son of Eltosian!_" His eyes were tense, aching from the glare. Hoisting his shield, his left hand clenched and unclenched with anxiety.

"Eltosian!" Celice exclaimed. His face lit up, and a relieved smile touched his lips.

Aless was stunned. "That's right! The same Eltosian your father _killed!_"

The look of joy on Celice's face faded. "Killed…? No, that's not what—"

"Silence!" Aless shouted. He looked to his sides, and saw a chaotic mass of soldiers and knights in the grip of the desert. Sand sprayed, and the wind swept across the battlefield, obscuring the horizon. They would not be disturbed yet.

"Sigurd was my father's sworn enemy; and I have come to honor the Lion King!" he exclaimed. Mistoltin throbbed, and his hand tingled with anticipation.

"Sworn enemies! Sir Aless, that's absurd! King Eltosian was a dear friend to my father!"

"Friends!" Aless shouted. The thought sparked a mindless outrage that originated in Mistoltin's fury. He charged. Celice raised his sword and shield in a panic, and urged his mount back. The horse struggled for footing as Aless thundered towards him, and lost its balance. It collapsed, and Celice yelped as he threw himself from the saddle. He landed with a thud, and his cloak whirled as he rolled through the sand. He called out for his horse as the animal slid down the slope with a fearful shriek. Aless charged towards him—

—and reined in his mount. The horse reared, and Celice swept his cloak about him as he rose to his feet with a two-handed grip on the curved sword. His shield lay to the side, forgotten. Fear in his features, he waited.

Aless sheathed his sword, and dismounted. The sand felt treacherous beneath his feet, but he was accustomed to it. He approached, and Celice backed off with each step. "You are a pitiful excuse for a knight, Celice, but I will not ride down a knight without a horse. I intend to reclaim my father's honor; not _sully it._"

"I don't want to fight you!"

Aless laughed; a harsh, hard sound without flourish. "Your father, the traitor, killed my father. My mother followed him soon after, _dead with grief!_ Do you think perhaps _I _want to fight _you? DO YOU?_" he shouted.

Celice gave a start, and shook his head. "N-no, I mean… Yes, if that's what you believe!" His features hardened, and he grew stern.

Aless stopped. ((_Did he grow a spine all of a sudden…?_)) He kept his hand on Mistoltin's sheathed hilt.

"Believe! It's the truth!"

"NO!" Celice sheathed his sword, and walked towards him. He held his head high, but stumbled through the sand. "Our fathers were the best of friends! King Eltosian was executed by his own liege, because he refused to fight my father!"

Aless spit in the sand. "Lies!" Mistoltin sang with bloodlust as he tore the sword from its sheath. Celice was close now: Close enough that Aless could place his sword against the boy's neck. "Your lies are worthless, pup. I _feel_ my father's sorrow, his anger, through the Demon Sword. Mistoltin _breathes_ it! My father's last thoughts were of Sigurd, and he was filled with grief and hate!"

Celice looked frightened, but did not move. The glimmering blade of jade brushed against his neck, slicing through his skin. He remained still, grimacing. His eyes were brimming with emotion, on the brink of tears. Even worse, they were filled with pity. "I am sorry to hear that his last moments were… filled with grief and hate. Still! Please, listen to—"

"Mistoltin knows my father's pain! Do not lie!"

"I don't know what Mistoltin tells you, but my father and Lady Lachesis swayed King Eltosian's mind! _Yes_, they fought, but my father did not kill King Eltosian!" His features were pleading; beseeching.

Doubt wormed its way into Aless' mind, and he felt uncertain for a moment. He gripped Mistoltin's hilt more fiercely, and drew from the certainty of the Demon Sword's memories. The blade hungered for Celice's neck, and it took all the strength he had to stop himself from allowing it to bite into the boy's flesh. "Draw your sword!" he hissed.

"I refuse!"

Aless swept the blade around and shifted his grip to slam the hilt against Celice's head. The boy grunted under the blow, and collapsed backwards. He coughed, and tried to wipe sand from his eyes as he fought to sit up. Aless watched him through a haze of red mist.

"Please, Sir Aless! Believe me!"

((_Mistoltin makes no mistakes. I cannot have lived a lie!_)) "Stand up! Defend yourself!"

"Sir Aless…" Celice coughed sand, and stirred. "King Eltosian was a good man; I have as much esteem for him as I have for my own father. They were the best of friends since their time at the…" More sand spilled from mouth as he coughed violently. "Since the Royal Academy at Barhara."

((_Can this be true…?_)) Aless stared at Mistoltin's shining blade. His eyes focused on the edge, and the world blurred around it. Through the haze, the sparkling jade metal seemed to simmer with emotion. His heart, set ablaze by its hate, pounded with furious urgency. His mind, wracked with its grief, staggered under the pressure. ((_Mistoltin…you are all that remains of my father… I have trusted in your hate and grief, but you do not know love… Could it be that Sigurd's pup is telling the truth…?_)) He shook his head, but the gesture did not dispel his doubt. "You lie." ((_Why would he lie? To save his life? But why not fight back?_)) He took a step forward and stabbed Mistoltin through Celice's blue cloak.

Celice's eyes filled with tears. "I want us to be friends," he whimpered.

Aless nearly laughed, but the sound was lost as he choked on emotion. "Friends! That's pathetic! Stand up, and at least _pretend_ to be a knight! Let us have _some _dignity!"

Celice rose, tearing his cloak on Mistoltin's razor edge. "Perhaps I am no knight, Sir Aless…" He staggered and nearly fell while searching for his balance. "I see no dignity in a battle between the sons of such dear friends. Would King Eltosian's honor be restored if you killed me…?" His voice was even, and he had found his balance. He stared at Aless with sad eyes.

"Shut up!"

Celice threw his arms out at his sides. "I can't tell you how _pleased_ I am to know that King Eltosian's son has survived! Please, I would be so happy if you would—"

Aless snapped. "Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!" In a fit of rage, he threw Mistoltin to the ground, and grasped Celice's collar, lifting him up. The haze of red mist evaporated slowly, and the dulled words began to sound louder in his ears. "Don't be so damn nice, you little twit! You're _ruining_ my revenge! DAMN YOU!"

"I'm sorry," Celice said. Without warning, he wrapped his arms around Aless' shoulders in a warm embrace.

Aless was stunned. He held Celice's collar in a death grip, and shivered in the warm desert breeze. The boy's cheek was warm against his, and wet with tears.

Aless gasped, and something broke inside. He pushed Celice's arms from his shoulders, and threw him down onto the sand. "G-get away from me!" he stammered. His humiliation was complete.

He wept.

As the tears began to fall on his cheeks, his powerless legs collapsed, and he sank to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, and despaired. ((_Father, forgive me! I can't do it; I can't avenge you…this little bastard…it's impossible._)) For the first time in ten years, he longed for his father, so much that his heart _ached._ ((_I need your guidance, father! Mistoltin…I…have I been wrong, all this time? Did I misunderstand…?_)) His thoughts returned to those few pleasant memories that he treasured; riding in his father's comforting embrace, practicing swordplay in the great hall of Castle Nodion…Like winter's heart, the images came unbidden, and would not leave.

A hand settled on his shoulder. No words were spoken. Like a feather, the weight of the touch was staggering, and ruinous. There was no choice but to let it fill the void.

Some time passed before he opened his eyes. He brushed sand from his knees, and raised his head to meet Celice's gaze. The boy's face bore a wistful smile.

"I'm not saying I believe you," he whispered.

"Sure. We have time; you'll see."

"If I find out that…that you were lying…I _will _kill you." The words were hollow, and pathetic.

"I know."

"…Don't touch me."

Celice withdrew his hand. He hesitated, and said, "I always wanted to have a brother. If…if the war hadn't come, our fathers would have remained friends, and we would have grown up together." His voice cracked and faltered on the words, and he sounded pitiful.

((_Shut up._)) Honor—_dignity_—was a knight's prerogative: It was what separated him from a common warrior. His life had aspired towards that lofty ideal; to win back what his father had _never lost_. Now, he found himself staggered, broken, and bent.

"You've stolen my revenge," he whispered. ((_You've stolen my _life)) His heart ached.

"I'm sorry."

He felt humiliated, frustrated, and irritated. "You're not making this easy on me, you little bastard."

Celice smiled.

Aless rose to his feet, and pulled Mistoltin from its sheath of sand. The blade pulsed with malicious greed, and sent shockwaves of anger into his mind.

He shrugged them off, and sheathed the blade.

His mount pranced nearby, and Aless could see now that the horse was anxious at the presence of numerous strangers. Silence had lowered itself over the battlefield, and the wind's voice was a solitary sound as it swept the cloaks of the gathered warriors. It was a diverse group; an unlikely collection of people.

"Everyone," Celice proclaimed, "This is the Black Knight Aless, but you may know him better as the _son of Eltosian!_"

There was some hesitation before a great cheer rose from the assembled men and women. They were all staring at him, but to his surprise, one face among them all called out to Aless. Her mouth was parted, and she seemed near to tears. ((_Aunt…? No; she's much too young._))

Staggered and shocked, Aless remained still, and silent. Mistoltin throbbed with violent need. Pretending that his tears had not been shed, he turned to Celice. In his face, he saw a different path.

It seemed brighter.


	3. The Demon Sword

…**the Demon Sword.**

It was power made flesh in metal.

Entering this world was much like being born. Chaos, pain, and discomfort: These things are known to humans. Even as the energy grew stale and solidified into a jade polish, a sentience had been sparked.

Not all things which think, _feel_, but that which is given sentience is also cursed with ambition and aspiration. Unable to move, unable to voice its desires, such an _object_ remains forever disappointed and displeased. Existence becomes a prison; a cage that cannot be broken. Humans have death.

Through the arm of its master, the Demon Sword _felt_. The human intellect spoke through touch, and a limited connection gave it influence, if only indirectly. It yearned for these moments, the warmth of fingers closing around its hilt, the connection to the living—the influence of a voice; a whisper in the mind.

There were emotions, there. Emotions implied an interest, and interest implied ambition. It understood hate, for it knew frustration, and grasped the concept of _blame._ Even an object can accuse. It hated the gods, but the feeling was lost on the omniscient; wasted. Such helplessness gave rise to grief. It understood grief, for it knew ambition, and aspiration, and grasped the concept of _failure._

It had lusted for Hezul's grip. In his hand, the Demon Sword's ambition had been born. In knowing one wielder, it knew only itself. Knowing the power of touch, it had desired to plunge itself into the skin of Hezul's foes; to feel their flesh, and know their minds—and through them, their weapons. It had searched in vain for a mate.

It had lusted for Eltosian's grip. In the Lion King's hand, the Demon Sword had been granted the hope of an end to its search. The Lion King's foes were worthy, but in the end, unsatisfying. It had hungered, but been denied. Eltosian's honor had been the rise, and the fall.

It knew not honor. Honor implies action; the fulfillment of ambitions and the neglect of desires. It knew not honor, but it thrived on it all the same.

It lusted for Aless' grip. In the Black Knight's hand, the Demon Sword began to understand the true extent of its influence, and with the realization of this small power came great ambition. It had hungered, coaxed, and pressured, but been denied. Aless' love had been the rise, warped as it was, and the fall.

It knew not love. Love implies choice; the elevation of one thing and the disdain shown for another. A sword does not choose its master; instead its master chooses the sword. Even for the Demon Sword, this was true. Bound to Hezul, it was without a choice, and could neither accept nor reject. It knew not love, but it hungered for it all the same.

That which is given sentience begins life alone. With perception comes a realization or dismissal of this fact. A human child has a mother, but the Demon Sword found that it was truly alone; unique. Uniqueness breeds sorrow, and sorrow demands release. Those who are unique begin to search for a reflection; a mirror to show its tears.

Even within the flesh of a thousand humans, the Demon Sword could not find a reflection.

Mistoltin could not weep. Humans had tears.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** The battle against Eltosian in chapter 3 was the single most puzzle-like part of a Fire Emblem game I've played. For a flawless victory, it really stretched your resources to the bursting point. 

I prefer the Romanization of "Eltosian" over "Eltoshan" or "Eltshan," which is why I used it. It has the best ring to it, in my opinion. Although "Ares" is the best Romanization for his son, it has too strong connotations for my tastes. It might work for the Japanese, but not for me.

No, the love between Sigurd and Eltosian _does not_ imply something more than friendship. Even so, love is a strong bond. You know, both Sigurd and Eltosian would have made excellent female knights, though, and if that were the case, I would not hesitate for a moment to write a longer romance between them. I think I prefer Sigurd as the female. Mm…such tasty idealism. That would be the One True Pairing in _Genealogy of the Holy War_. Maybe I'll write it one day. Actually, the more I think about it, the hotter it gets. Celice already looks like a girl, anyway; Female Sigurd—Sigrid—could resemble him.

On the other hand, I _do_ imply that someone loves someone else in an M-rated way. I think you know what I mean.

Amusingly enough, I paired up Nanna with Aless during my play-through, so I guess they're living in sin at some cozy castle right about now. Nice.


End file.
